The Hermit Chronicles
I know October 31 was two weeks ago, but what is it about people in large cities and Halloween? For months people I know out here have been talking about their costumes, planning for the parade in West Hollywood, arranging parties, etc. Amid all this excitement, I was silent. I made no plans. I sewed no costume.
As part of The Great Clean-out of 2005 (see previous bog entry), I’ve been holed up in my apartment, like a new millennium JD Salinger, except I have to go to work. Sometimes I go out to buy groceries, sometimes I go have brunch with a friend. But most of the time I am a complete hermit. It occurred to me a few weeks back that I’ve been spending a lot of time with people I hate. I also hate driving (see previous blog entry). So the natural solution is to not leave my apartment. And for the past three weeks, I’ve been utterly pleased.
I’ve been so committed to my new hermit routine that I recently had this phone conversation with a friend:
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“What are you doing?”
“Lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling.” (Note: I have no TV.)
“What are you doing tonight?”
“This.”
“You’re kidding. You have to come out.”
“Nope.”
“Come on, it’ll be fun.”
“No it won’t.”
“It has to be more fun than what you’re doing.”
“No it doesn’t. I am having a lot of fun right now, actually.”
“C’mon, please?”
“Nope.”
“Fine, I’ll call you this weekend. You have to come out eventually.”
She was right, I ended up hanging out with that friend all day the Sunday before Halloween and the two of us had a great time. She even convinced me to come to a Halloween party. Everyone showed up in costume, from a dark angel, to Elvis, to a navy admiral.
The thing is, I think a lot of people in LA use Halloween as an excuse to dress like whores. I’m pretty sure that the US Navy isn’t issuing booty-shorts to the female admirals. I’m also sure that if I somehow wind up in Hell someday, the angels won’t be wearing booty-shorts and black crocheted halter tops.
My costume consisted of a black shirt, jeans and a corduroy blazer. When asked what I was dressed up as, I responded, “I’m a disgruntled black woman.”
My costume was the most authentic thing there. I researched it for weeks in my apartment. I can definitively say that is what a disgruntled black woman would wear if forced to attend a party. Yet I received no compliments, no kudos, no “Best Costume” awards. Why you ask?
No booty-shorts.
Back to my apartment it is!
I know October 31 was two weeks ago, but what is it about people in large cities and Halloween? For months people I know out here have been talking about their costumes, planning for the parade in West Hollywood, arranging parties, etc. Amid all this excitement, I was silent. I made no plans. I sewed no costume.
As part of The Great Clean-out of 2005 (see previous bog entry), I’ve been holed up in my apartment, like a new millennium JD Salinger, except I have to go to work. Sometimes I go out to buy groceries, sometimes I go have brunch with a friend. But most of the time I am a complete hermit. It occurred to me a few weeks back that I’ve been spending a lot of time with people I hate. I also hate driving (see previous blog entry). So the natural solution is to not leave my apartment. And for the past three weeks, I’ve been utterly pleased.
I’ve been so committed to my new hermit routine that I recently had this phone conversation with a friend:
“Where are you?”
“At home.”
“What are you doing?”
“Lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling.” (Note: I have no TV.)
“What are you doing tonight?”
“This.”
“You’re kidding. You have to come out.”
“Nope.”
“Come on, it’ll be fun.”
“No it won’t.”
“It has to be more fun than what you’re doing.”
“No it doesn’t. I am having a lot of fun right now, actually.”
“C’mon, please?”
“Nope.”
“Fine, I’ll call you this weekend. You have to come out eventually.”
She was right, I ended up hanging out with that friend all day the Sunday before Halloween and the two of us had a great time. She even convinced me to come to a Halloween party. Everyone showed up in costume, from a dark angel, to Elvis, to a navy admiral.
The thing is, I think a lot of people in LA use Halloween as an excuse to dress like whores. I’m pretty sure that the US Navy isn’t issuing booty-shorts to the female admirals. I’m also sure that if I somehow wind up in Hell someday, the angels won’t be wearing booty-shorts and black crocheted halter tops.
My costume consisted of a black shirt, jeans and a corduroy blazer. When asked what I was dressed up as, I responded, “I’m a disgruntled black woman.”
My costume was the most authentic thing there. I researched it for weeks in my apartment. I can definitively say that is what a disgruntled black woman would wear if forced to attend a party. Yet I received no compliments, no kudos, no “Best Costume” awards. Why you ask?
No booty-shorts.
Back to my apartment it is!
posted by Anika at 7:13 PM
1 Comments:
Thanks, but I save booty shorts for paying customers. You can't get something for nothing...
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